


Alone at Sea

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Unrequited Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Martin makes a choice. Some things are better forgotten.





	Alone at Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



Martin watched Jon.

Not in a creepy way, or at least not that creepy, given their situation. After all, with everything that had already happened, it was only sensible, wasn’t it? And he didn’t do it all the time. There was always work to do, and he didn’t want Jon to know, to try to interfere. If he got too close, it might not even take Jon trying to notice him. So he took his chances when he could, when Jon went outside, and Martin could watch from an upper window. 

The first thing he noticed was that Jon was smoking. Which was odd, or maybe good? That he was stressed in a human way, enough to want to reach for human comforts. And it wasn’t like it’d hurt him anymore, was it? If he could survive a building falling on him…

Martin’s throat tightened, and he almost turned away at that reminder of why he wasn’t down there with Jon, or waiting for him back in the Archives. But movement caught his eye, from a nearby dark corner. It was probably nothing, and Jon seemed entirely unperturbed. If it was dangerous, he’d notice, wouldn’t he? But then his powers were erratic. Not like Elias, always watching, and even Elias hadn’t seen everything. Martin’s fingers curled into the molding around the window, other hand lifting to hover over the latch. He wasn’t even sure if it’d open, but if he could force it, maybe he could shout a warning. But warning Jon would also warn whatever else was there. Would involve contact he wasn’t supposed to have. And it might be nothing. 

The figure shifted again, tugging a dark coat closer, hood shielding their face. It was a gloomy day, but warm enough the thick coat was a bit much, and it wasn’t raining. Martin’s eyes darted to Jon, who took another puff from his cigarette, seemingly oblivious. He didn’t see.

Even then, Martin hesitated. Peter was supposed to protect the Institute. And he’d done well enough, since they made their deal. But then Breekon had gotten in, hadn’t he? Peter couldn’t be everywhere, and maybe he didn’t care if there was the odd slip. Not like he was terribly concerned with Jon’s wellbeing, more cavalier than even Elias had been.

Martin started running before he’d even realized he’d made a decision, practically throwing himself down the nearby stairs, heading for the side door closest to Jon. Still unsure what he was going to do, not possessing any particular abilities of his own, but then Jon had dealt with Breekon. Maybe if Martin warned him, whoever it was wouldn’t want to risk it. Wouldn’t want their concealing layers pulled aside, dissected for scrutiny by the ever watchful Eye. Martin’s stomach squirmed at the thought, the idea he was relying on Jon like that. The desire to see Jon like that. It was bad, he knew that, but he couldn’t resent it now. Not if it’d save Jon. Sometimes, the powers and their cost almost seemed worth it.

As he dashed through the door, he nearly slammed into Jon, coming back inside. He only caught a brief glimpse of Jon’s face, the surprise followed by a happiness that made Martin’s stomach flip uncomfortably, a sick churn of terror and pleasure. But he didn’t have time to consider it further, because the figure had climbed the steps of the Institute, now only a few yards away. Martin grabbed Jon’s shoulder, spinning him around even as he pulled him back. 

“The People’s Church,” Jon breathed, confirming Martin’s suspicions. 

“Can’t you do something?” Martin said, voice cracking with fear and panic and something darker still. 

“I—I can’t control it, not really, I don’t—” 

He stumbled back against Martin, in a way that made Martin want to step in front of him. To protect him from the sneering figure, now reaching inside their cloak. But what could he do? He didn’t have Jon’s powers, couldn’t fight. Wasn’t Peter, able to slip away, to leave everyone and everything behind. He couldn’t do anything at all.

But he could do nothing. He propelled Jon forward towards the Institute, his own back to the cultist, and hoped that’d be enough as they stumbled up the final steps.

The cold slice of pain that followed wasn’t even a surprise, the blade of a thing that might be considered the cousin of a normal knife digging into his shoulder. Distantly he heard Jon shout his name, and a low, dark laugh. He ignored them both, staggering forward and taking Jon with him through the doors. As they slammed shut behind them, the cultist remained on the other side, just as he’d hoped. It wasn’t really a place they liked, was it? And even if Jon had said he couldn’t do anything, Martin imagined they’d still be cautious, attacking him directly in the Institute itself. At least if there was only the one. 

But even as he thought it, he heard the scrape of metal. Something was oozing from his shoulder. From the frigid temperature and the keen, terrified look in Jon’s eyes, he thought it was probably worse than blood. His hand went to it briefly, but Jon caught his wrist. 

“Don’t—” 

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the slamming of the door. Martin spun around, meeting a pair of dark, cold eyes and a hand clutching an obsidian dagger. 

“Jon, run, go find—” It didn’t even matter. Melanie, Daisy, Basira, or best of all Helen. They’d all be able to do more than Martin. As would Jon, given sufficient incentive. He didn’t close his eyes. Might as well keep watching, if this was it. And it was a good thing he did, because the wild hatred in the cultist’s eyes shifted into an equally wild fear. 

And then Martin was alone. 

He sagged against the wall, staring blearily around him. No Jon, no cultist, just an empty corridor. Or almost empty. Because slowly walking towards him, hint of swagger in his step, was Peter. As Martin watched him approach, the world seemed to soften around the edges, almost like fog was creeping into the Institute. No, definitely like fog, scentless and swirling around his fingers as he reached out. 

A calloused hand clasped his, pulling him to his feet. 

“Sorry I’m late. A family engagement, you know how it is.” Peter wore his perpetual bright smile, but even that seemed oddly muted. 

Martin tugged his hand free, pressing it to the slash on his shoulder. Still damp, but feeling a lot more like just blood than whatever had been there before. And the pain was fading as well. Enough that he could straighten his shoulders, voice strong when he finally spoke.

“What did you do? Where’s Jon?” he demanded. “And why did you bring us here?”

Peter sighed. “The erstwhile assassin is…elsewhere. And your Archivist is fine. Exactly where he should be. And he would’ve been fine without your attempt at heroics.”

“Oh, because you were handling it? Great job, by the way. I see you were really on top of things.” He didn’t bother to keep the bitterness and anger from his voice. After all, what was Peter going to do? Leave him here, he supposed. But he honestly didn’t care right now. And if he did, maybe that was better. End it all, or maybe, maybe Jon would—

“I can’t be everywhere at once. I do have other things to take care besides protecting your hapless Archivist. You might recall that we discussed them before?”

“I don’t—” Martin gritted his teeth. “Our deal was that you protect the Institute.” 

“In return for your help, yes. Which,” Peter added, holding up a finger to silence Martin, “you have provided. But you also haven’t made your choice.” 

He leaned closer, and Martin expected the usual. A comment about a smudge of dirt, or some hair out of place. A quick brush of a finger, easy enough to dismiss. But instead he cupped Martin’s jaw, thumb stroking a line down his cheekbone. 

“Time grows short. Dramatic, I know, but unfortunately true.” 

“So, what? This is it?” Not so soon, he wanted to say. He hadn’t said—what? Good-bye? His fingers tightened around Peter’s arm. When had he grabbed him? Blood loss, maybe. Or something about this place, making him forget.

Peter shook his head. “Oh, not yet. I do hope you’ll agree eventually, that you’ll come to want to join me.” He traced a finger over Martin’s lips, and let him go when Martin recoiled. “But for now, I had something a bit milder in mind. Just some performance improvement. On the job training, so to speak.” 

“Like Elias? You’re going to just mess with me, try to scare me into doing what you want?”

It was a mistake. Martin knew it, knew that he’d said too much the second the words left his mouth. Peter stilled, eyes narrowing, just that slightest crack in his normal jovial tranquility. A reminder that Peter was no better, no safer than Elias, for all he aped kindness as best he could. 

“Your affection for your Archivist won’t save him. It won’t save anyone. Only I can do that. And if you help me, there’s a greater chance I’ll succeed.” His composure reasserted himself, and he flashed Martin another smile. “But if you’d rather go it alone, I do think it’s time we parted ways.” 

The corridor seemed to lengthen around him, and Martin felt a swell of panic in his chest. Without Peter, what would he do? Ask Elias, he supposed, though he felt sick at the thought, imagining how Elias would gloat. And likely be no help regardless. 

“It’s been lovely, Martin,” Peter said, with a little wave of his hand.

“No!” Martin said, running after him. Catching the hint of a smile, knowing he’d been manipulated, but for all his talk of choice, Peter hadn’t really given him one. Peter loved to gamble because he was the house, and he’d always win in the end. “I’ll do it. The— whatever you want. The improvement plan.” 

“Oh, don’t look so gloomy,” Peter said, turning to Martin with an even broader smile. “It’s not nearly as unpleasant as Elias’s little mind tricks. And it might even help you protect your poor fool of an Archivist, should another unfortunate incident arise.”

To make the cultist vanish, like Peter had. To be able to watch Jon, distant but vigilant. Wandering the corridors unseen and unheard. 

“What do I need to do?” There was a fatality to the words that he was only fully aware of upon speaking, and seeing a true spark of joy in Peter’s normally empty eyes. 

“First, why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

*

Peter guided Martin to his office with a surprisingly gentle hand around his bicep. More than once Martin opened his mouth to ask what Peter had done, what he’d agreed to, but Peter remained silent, and something about his demeanor discouraged speech. Not like that was unusual. Peter really only seemed to have the two moods. So quiet you barely even noticed he was there, or chatting up a storm. As contradictory and mercurial as the sea. And as dangerous, something Martin knew now, more than ever, that he needed to remember. 

As Peter shut the door behind them and let Martin’s arm go, he reached back to touch his shoulder, fingers coming away red. Not as bad as it’d first seemed, and he wondered if Peter had something to do with that as well. 

“What do I do about this? I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s not normal,” he said, waving a hand vaguely at his shoulder. 

“Not normal at all,” Peter said gravely. “So let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before Martin got the chance to ask what exactly he meant, Peter had already directed his attention elsewhere, rummaging through the desk and pulling out a first aid kit, waggling it triumphantly on Martin.

“Always be prepared. One of the first things you learn at sea.” 

He nodded to the attached bathroom, one of the old-fashioned conveniences in this particular office that Peter had declared made it perfect. It hadn’t worked when he’d moved in. Martin remembered that Elias once noted they didn’t have the budget for it, though he wondered now if Elias had other reasons for ignoring it. Either way, Peter had the money to bring in not just repairmen, but true restoration specialists, who had it working in less than a fortnight. 

Perhaps he just liked having water nearby. He did tend to ramble about missing the sea. Whatever his reasons, it’d been convenient, with Martin trying to avoid the others. Maybe that was it, in the end. 

But now it served a rather more gruesome purpose, as Peter began to run the water first in the sink, then the large tub. Martin hovered for a moment before taking a seat on the toilet, watching Peter check the temperature, until he clicked his tongue in satisfaction.

Steam began to rise from the tub, or at least Martin thought it was steam, and not the creeping fog from before. Though maybe here they were one in the same. As Peter wet a towel and turned off the sink, he squinted into it, trying to see if there was any difference, wondering if it mattered. 

A tap on his shoulder made him realize that Peter had been talking to him, the towel draped over the rim of the sink. The blood loss, that must be it, and it was the blood loss that made Martin so willing to go along with it as Peter undid his cuff, bringing Martin’s wrist to his mouth.

For a wild moment, Martin thought he was going to bite, like some sort of fictional vampire. Far more alluring than the real thing, but no less dangerous. But all Peter did was press a kiss to the sensitive skin there, before doing the same to Martin’s other wrist, finally moving to his chest, continuing to undo buttons.

Martin wondered if he’d planned this, as Peter’s fingers brushed his skin. He’d dismissed the small gestures, the odd purchases like the very shirt he was wearing. It made sense, he told himself. A certain standard of appearance, and it wasn’t like Peter didn’t have the money. And the touches, a hand resting too long on his back, lips whispering too close to his ear, well, it just had to be that Peter didn’t care for normal human boundaries. The idea that it would be something as mundane as sexual harassment, it had just seemed absurd. 

But it didn’t seem that way now. Not with the way Peter slid the shirt from his shoulders, before returning to run his hands down Martin’s chest, plucking at his nipples and eliciting a gasp from Martin. Nor the way he then went to Martin’s feet, removing his shoes before turning to work on his trousers.

“Peter,” Martin said. To stop him? To ask him what he was doing, even when it was blatantly obvious. 

“Shh.” Peter pulled him to his feet, turning him around and sliding down his trousers and pants, while Martin stepped out obligingly. “Your clothes are all bloody.”

Were they? But Martin didn’t have the chance to check as Peter gave Martin’s uninjured shoulder a gentle shove.

“Lean over,” he said. “It’s getting better, but you’re still far too human to just shrug it off.”

“And what if I weren’t human?” Martin asked, already knowing the answer as he braced his hands on either side of the sink.

“I hope you’ll someday find out.”

Martin stared into the basin while Peter dabbed gently at the cut, making the odd tsking noise with his tongue. The stinging was there, but oddly muted, even as Peter reached for the antiseptic in the kit, and applied that as well. 

“I’ll bandage it later,” Peter said, giving Martin a push towards the tub. “But first, might as well get washed up. 

He slid his hands down Martin’s back, raising goosebumps on his skin. Martin shut his eyes, knew he should say something, remained silent. It was sort of nice, all this touching. And Peter’s hands were warmer than he’d have expected, if he’d thought about Peter’s hands. And well, he had. Just once or twice. When one person was your main interaction, you did start to think about them. That was all it was. 

Oh, who was he kidding? Behind him, he could hear the sound of Peter removing his clothes. He knew exactly where this was going. And he wasn’t sure what was worse. That he didn’t know if he could escape, or that he didn’t know if he wanted to. His hand tightened around the edge of the tub, to shove away or to anchor him there.

“Is it infected?” Not what he’d meant to ask, but he’d always tended to dance around issues when he was nervous. Something he’d wanted to change, thought he’d changed, but apparently not. Still just standing around, waiting for it all to happen to him. 

“Hmm. Yes and no. It’s very unfortunate you got stabbed.” Peter’s hands griped his waist, and Martin shivered. His fingers tightened. “But it might for the best, in the end. Here, the effect shouldn’t kill you. And it will fade with time.”

“Because this is the realm of the Lonely, and it drowns out the Dark.” He almost said more, asked more, how long and if this is what Peter meant by performance improvement. 

But Martin was sick of talking. 

“Not quite. But close enough,” Peter said, as Martin turned around. 

It wasn’t as strange as it should be, having Peter loom over him, naked. And no, Martin didn’t hate it, not at all. Even with his age, whatever that really was, Peter was a handsome man, pale but muscular from the hard work at sea. Peter leaned in, teeth nipping at Martin’s earlobe as he murmured, “You’d like it if I fucked you, wouldn’t you?” 

A tease. A choice. And a decision Martin had already made. 

Before Peter could say anything else, Martin’s fingers were in his hair, pulling him into a kiss. Peter laughed against his lips, and likely would’ve complimented Martin’s boldness, if Martin hadn’t thrust his tongue into Peter’s mouth, seeking what heat he could find there as Peter ground against him, his cock already half-hard. Teeth caught on Martin’s lips, hard enough to draw more blood. A sacrifice to the Lonely. Why not, after all? He’d already given one to the Dark. And wasn’t it better willing? As willing as he could be. As willing as he was allowed. 

He tugged Peter closer, moaning against his mouth as their cocks slid against each other. And again as Peter’s large hand wrapped around them, fast and coarse over the sensitive skin. 

This time Martin let him speak, as he set a punishing pace, too rough and not nearly rough enough. “I’d love to do a bit more, considering it’s our first time and all. But we do have a bit of a deadline. The ship leaves at dawn, and it wouldn’t do for the captain to be late, would it?”

“The ship?” Martin said, voice breaking as Peter grabbed his arse, pushing a finger in before Martin could even think to protest. Not nearly enough to hurt, or to be truly satisfying. Just enough to tease what might come later, as Martin groaned into his mouth, and came.

“Good lad,” Peter said. “Now turn around.” 

His oversensitive cock rubbed against the tub as Peter began to thrust between his thighs. The sensation was overwhelming, the cool porcelain, the pressure, and Peter’s bruising grip the only thing holding Martin up. The only thing stopping him from plunging into the depths. It wasn’t long until Peter came as well, biting into the meat of Martin’s neck. Marking him, and Martin knew why, and almost didn’t mind. 

“Now then,” Peter said cheerily, letting Martin go. Already seeming miles away. “Why don’t you clean up, and I’ll see about us leaving.”

He didn’t give Martin a chance to reply. And so Martin made his choice, and climbed into the tub, and let the water wash away what it could. 

*

Somehow, Martin ended up on the low sofa in the office. He awoke to a weak morning light, and a note pinned to a pile of folded clothes. 

_Ship leaves soon. Mind you’re not too late._

And if he were? Peter had always said he had a choice, but if he tried to leave now, could he? He snorted. It didn’t matter, did it? Even if Peter offered him the choice, it wasn’t a choice at all. Not anymore. He’d made it months ago. It was the only way to protect anyone.

The only way to protect Jon.

His finger wound tight in the blanket. He’d almost forgotten. Just for a little while. And it’d been wonderful, in its way. Dangerous, and far too seductive. But it wouldn’t get him through this. He had to remember why he was here. Why he was doing this. Because without it, everyone would be in danger. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not anymore. 

He tugged on the clothing, not at all surprised to find it fit, and almost ran from the Institute. It should’ve been surprising, to see Peter’s ship docked in front of it, in an ocean that didn’t exist in London. He didn’t try to look back. The Institute wouldn’t be there anyway. 

As he slowly crossed the threshold, he expected there to be some sort of shift. A change. But it felt the same as before. All of this was Peter’s after all. Or as much Peter’s as it ever could be. Hanging from a hook on one wall was a whistle. He hesitated, then took it, blowing hard. As he’d thought, it was the signal needed. The ship began to pull away. 

And Martin was alone at sea. 

*

At first, it was almost nice. No temptation, no choice, just mindless admin on the old computer he’d found in what must be Peter’s office. Not that Martin expected Peter ever used it himself. In truth, he was surprised it worked at all. But on it was the same work he’d done before. And awaiting him was a short email.

_Satellite internet is spotty here. You understand. You can send things out, but no one will respond._

_Love,_

_Peter_

He clutched the mouse, cursor lingering over the closing, throat tight with fear, confusion, something else he couldn’t name. Peter had always been oddly affection, an affection only made odder by his affiliation. It was probably just that. Or it was something to confuse Martin, to lead him astray. He had no illusions that however genuine Peter’s desire to stop the Extinction, he was using everything in his power to persuade Martin. To manipulate him into doing exactly what Peter wanted.

And then…what? Martin joined the Lonely? The Lukases were a big family. They hardly needed him. And anyway, Peter didn’t matter. Not as a person. He had to do this. For Jon, for the others. 

So he went back to his work. 

*

Weeks passed. Or at least Martin thought it was weeks. Maybe it was only days. Time seemed strange, out at sea. No one to talk to. Nothing except research, admin, and the odd email from Peter. Never a response, not that Martin bothered to send anything. Only commands, the sort of thing he’d been sending the rest of the Institute. Still with that odd affection, that made Martin miss him. 

And he shouldn’t miss Peter. As he stared into his cup of tea, he repeated it all to himself again. He was here to help Jon, to protect him and the Institute. And to save the world, from something worse than Peter. This was the sacrifice he was making. 

But as the time rolled on, he began to wonder if it was a sacrifice he’d already made.

*

Even as he tried to focus on his work, as time grew longer, it grew harder. Martin was used to solitude. Even enjoyed it sometimes. Or well, he didn’t mind it, at least. But not like this. Without even the smile of the cashier at the shop, or the old lady he helped onto the tube. Without even watching Jon from a distant, not touching him, not reaching out, but it’d been something. 

Maybe that was what drove him to it. Opening a new email, typing a name into the address bar. Wanting to explain…what? Why he’d done it? To make him understand, before Martin didn’t care anymore. Even though he wasn’t sure quite what there was to understand. 

That was when he heard it. The low bellow of a foghorn, and a familiar whir. Enough to drive him to his feet, scrambling to find it, that reassurance that somehow Jon had found him here, even if he didn’t realize it. And as he shoved a stack of papers aside, there it was. He reached for it, hand trembling at even this smaller connection to the outside world. 

Then his hand was knocked aside.

It shouldn’t have been a shock to see Peter there. In the dim light of the cabin, his cheery smile seemed ever more sinister than usual. A clear warning, one Martin wasn’t inclined to take. 

“I just wanted to make sure he knew I was okay. We left so abruptly, and—”

He was cut off by a hand over his mouth, and other gripping his shoulder, forcing him chest down onto the desk. 

“What are you doing?” Martin asked, when Peter pulled his hand away, still holding Martin down.

“Remember, Martin. You do have a choice. But choices have consequences. Think about what those might be.”

Martin struggled weakly against him. “So, what? You’re going to punish me. For wanting to talk to Jon?”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter said pityingly. “I told you I understand. But I don’t think you do. And I want to impress upon you the very serious nature of our situation. To encourage…improvement.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“With your agreement, of course. Performance improvement does require consent.” 

Martin snorted. “Do you want me to sign something? Send it over to HR?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Verbal agreement with suffice.” He finally lifted his hand from Martin’s shoulder, drifting lower to ruck up his shirt, and toy with his waistband, making very clear the sort of improvement he was going for. 

“Do you really just want to fuck me? Seriously?” He couldn’t help wiggling as Peter hooked a finger below his waistband, not sure if he wanted to get away or give in. And already knowing what he would do, in the end. It’d been so long, and Peter…Peter was enough. 

“Not just, no. I was quite serious about my offer. But it is a nice side benefit, one you didn’t seem all that opposed to last time.”

“I—” He was right. Of course he was right. “Fine. Whatever—whatever you think is best.”

“Brilliant!” With no ceremony at all, Peter pulled down his trousers and pants, and gave his arse a light slap. “How about some old fashioned discipline?”

“What?” He heard the rasp of something almost like cloth, too late to figure out what it was before a line of heat fell across his arse. 

Peter expected him to resist. But he didn’t understand, did he? Martin was the sacrifice. When everything was on the line, it was the only choice he could make. 

“More,” Martin said, voice surprisingly strong. “Harder.” His fingers dug into the wood of the desk. 

Peter complied with a laugh, bringing down what had to be a rope again, and a third time, before running calloused hands over his inflamed flesh, leaning over him to abrade it with his heavy work jeans. He bit into Martin’s neck, the same place as before, and Martin cried out. 

“You’re enjoying this even more than I expected. I’ll make a sailor of you yet.”

Peter snaked a hand around, giving Martin’s cock a rough tug, while Martin groaned in response. His hands were encased in gloves, thick fabric for work on a ship, and Martin only wanted it more. Needed it. 

The brief whoosh of air was all the warning Martin had before the rope smacked across the back of thighs. He couldn’t help the yelp this time, nor the whimper when Peter returned to his arse, bringing it down in steady strokes, humming something under his breath. A sea shanty, one Martin recognized.

“A bit cliche, isn’t it? I’d think—” 

Four lashes, in quick succession, drowned out any thought, as they hit the same line across his arse, again and again. Cutting him open, letting the pain drain out, leaving nothing behind. 

“Tie him to the mast and then you flog him.” Another hit, back to his thighs, brighter and clearer than his arse. “I think it’s quite fitting, though unfortunately I’m rather lacking in that sort of mast.” And again, across his lower back, startling another moan from Martin. “Except this one, I guess. And I’d say it’s quite sturdy.” Peter dragged his cock over the abused skin, pulling at the cuts, all while Martin tried to pull away, tried to get closer still.

“Then why aren’t you tying me to it?”

Peter laughed, then pulled back. For a minute there was nothing but silence, and Martin drifted, until he felt something hot and liquid spurt across his back and arse, dripping down his thighs. And then yet another lash, worse and better for the gap. 

“Another day, I think. I like to build up to these things.” He stroked a hand down Martin’s back, smearing his skin while Martin trembled, and longed for more of his touch. 

And then, again, he pulled away.

Time seemed to blur, the only point of focus the hot lines crossing his thighs, his arse, his lower back. He didn’t even try to count, didn’t think of anything but the pain. Even Peter seemed to fade after a time. 

No. Peter had faded. The realization came slowly, his palms slipping on the desk as he pulled himself to his feet. The floor was flecked with blood, and come. He must’ve— He didn’t remember. All he could do was staggered against the far wall as his skin throbbed. Not distant anymore, not at all. And this wasn’t, this couldn’t be what he wanted. What he’d agreed to. The sob echoed oddly in the small room, taking on a strange underwater quality. 

And the tape recorder was still going. 

Focus. That had been the point, hadn’t it? Until there was nothing left but him. Still half in a daze, he tugged his trousers back up, wincing as the dragged against the torn flesh. Then he picked up the tape recorder, and walked out into the fog. 

When he reached the railing, he hesitated for just a moment. Considered speaking, saying something. So that Jon would have a record of what passed. Might understand why Martin did it. 

His eyes slipped shut. As the world faded around him, it slipped from his hand, the only sign it had been there the faint plop as it struck the water. Then Martin turned towards the cabin, and didn’t once look back.

*

When Martin returned, there was an email waiting for him. From Jon, worried in a way that he’d once dreamed about. Still longed for, if he was being honest. Asking what had happened, if Martin was okay. That Peter had sent an email, but that Jon didn’t trust him. That he was sorry, he knew Martin had asked for his trust, but that he couldn’t leave it like that, Martin stabbed and then vanishing without a trace. He’d looked for Martin. But he hadn’t found him. After all, he couldn’t go there. The best he could hope for was watching, looking on and feeling and hurting and never being able to do a damn thing.

But Martin was different. He’d found a way. It wasn’t easy, yet. And maybe that was a good thing. He thought it was a good thing. It meant that maybe, just maybe, he could go back. Not that he’d ever be able to truly excise that place from him, not now. But Daisy had left the Hunt. So that meant Martin might be able to do the same. And he did want to. Wanted to someday look at Jon, and feel that familiar warmth that had driven him to let go.

But now, Martin looked out the window. Saw a flickering shape, a burning desire to destroy everything he had sworn he’d protect. Allies, perhaps, waited in the wings. To see what it found, what secrets it could burn out of them.

What none of the monsters realized was that in the end, they were all alone. The only person you ever had was yourself. Perhaps they’d find that out, come to understand it. But Martin didn’t think so. It should hurt more than it did, doing what he did. But they were only monsters, after all.

He returned to his computer, where three more frantic emails resided. Indecision weighed him down. To delete them? That’d probably be best. What Peter wanted. Maybe better for the world, to give himself over fully. But the problem with realizing how alone you are is that it tended to make you a bit selfish. So Martin didn’t read them. Instead, he carefully printed them out, folded them up, and tucked them into the back of the door. 

Someday, he hoped he’d pull them out, and smile when he read them. But for now, they stayed there, as alone as Martin was. 

When the tape recorder appeared, Martin turned it off. Some things were better forgotten.


End file.
